


Brief Respite

by pixie_rings



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Garrett Hawke done fucked up, Introspection, M/M, Post-Game, Running Away, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixie_rings/pseuds/pixie_rings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They must escape from the havoc Hawke has unwittingly unleashed, but they can allow themselves a moment's rest, at least, as decisions are made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brief Respite

They were, he supposed, used to it by now. It was easy, really, to fall back into being on the run once more. Himself, his sister and his father apostates, and now running for his life and freedom from the windswept remains of the Chantry… well, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same, really.

They fled to the Wounded Coast, the memory of Meredith’s demise still fresh in his mind, the acrid scent of raw lyrium burnt into his nostrils. His bones ached, bruised, battered and weary, but the adrenaline still coursed flashing hot through him. How long could Cullen and Carver give them?

He hadn’t even said goodbye to his newly-reconciled brother.

It was only when a familiar hand wrapped around his wrist that he stopped. He turned, swallowing, and realised Fenris had been talking to him.

“We can stop now,” he murmured. Hawke swallowed again, nodding and rested against a rock. They hadn’t stopped since Hawke had met them again by the city gates, a pack hastily prepared by Bodahn slung over his shoulder and all the gold he could carry scattered in the nooks and crannies of the Champion’s conspicuous Mantle. One by one his companions sank to the ground, groaning and grunting out their exhaustion and pain and letting the fear catch up on them. Anders chugged a lyrium potion and crawled to each of them, healing the wounds they had. It was a mark of how bone-tired they were than none objected to being healed by him, despite the horrific mess he’d gotten them into.

Perhaps Hawke blamed himself for that. He really should have seen it coming.

Hawke noticed the tremor in his hands, stuttering movements that wouldn’t stop even when he willed them. Fenris eyed him for a moment, then took his hands within his own. Only a few brief hours ago, they’d kissed for what could have been the last time, promises of futures and devotion finally spoken through desperation and fear; some things had to be said before it was too late. The mage would have wept, but he simply didn’t have the strength. Instead he folded in against his lover’s shoulder, heedless of spikes, feathers and hard leather, and allowed a gauntleted hand to run through his hair, his back heaving with irregular, harsh breaths more than halfway to silent sobs.

The silence of thought was thick over them, like a blanket of winter snow.

“Well,” Merrill piped up, never able to read the atmosphere, “what do we do now?”

Ah, yes, that posed _another_ problem. Where would six known fugitives head now? Hawke could almost hear the doors slamming shut in his mind.

He wondered where Gamlen and Charade were now. Were they all right? Had they escaped?

“Well, we can’t stay here,” Varric stated. “And there won’t be a safe place in Thedas, not with the Chantry after us.”

“I would have said Seheron,” Fenris murmured, his hand still carding through Hawke’s hair, “but not after what happened with the Arishok.”

“Orlais is out of the question,” Aveline added. “Especially since it’s the Chantry’s stronghold.” She levelled a disgusted look at Anders, who bristled under her gaze. Hawke sensed the tension forming and raised his head wearily.

“Save the finger-pointing and the hair-pulling for when I have the strength to shout at you all,” he said. “I’m _not_ in the mood to play daddy right now. I don’t give a fuck whether the fuckwit blew up the Chantry, I just want… want to rest. For a moment. Please, _Maker_ , all of you, please, just give me _that_.” His voice broke on the last word as he took in a shaky breath, and everyone dissolved into guilty silence, for a while.

Until the clatter of armour and voices reached them.

Fenris was away from his side like a shot, Blade of Mercy out and still defiant despite his own obvious weariness. Varric nocked a bolt, raising Bianca in readiness.

“Don’t worry, it’s only Donnic!”

“And a few others!” That was Charade. Well, that and Gamlen’s grumpy, unintelligible complaint answered Hawke’s previous question, at least.

Everyone sagged in relief, sinking back down gratefully. Aveline launched herself at the man, kissing him urgently, and Hawke had to admit that he knew how good kisses like that could feel, how desperation and inevitability made everything needle-sharp. He looked at Fenris, _his_ Fenris, and smiled somewhat lopsidedly, as if only half of his mouth could quite manage the feat. Fenris smiled back, soft and affectionate, everything Hawke had ever needed, for the first time. It was like the sun coming out after a full day of rain.

“So,” said Donnic, once he was settled at Aveline’s side with their hands firmly clasped together, “where do we go from here?”

“We were just discussing that,” Varric said, leaning back against a rock as if it were a glorious feather pillow. “We have to get as far away from here as we can tonight, and then we can think about where to go from there. There aren’t that many choices.”

“Antiva, Rivain, the Anderfels, Nevarra, Tevinter or Ferelden,” Hawke listed in a tired monotone, turning his head slightly so his voice wouldn’t be entirely muffled by Fenris’s shoulder, where he had returned it as if it belonged there – which it did. “And if I set foot in Tevinter I’d kill everyone, so we can’t go there.”

Fenris squeezed his arm warmly, obviously touched by those words.

“Well, what about Antiva or Rivain?” Charade suggested. “I hear they’re not that bad, as places go.”

“Well, apart from the back-stabbing and the piracy,” Varric added wryly.

“Too hot,” Hawke said, surprisingly fervent. “I hate Kirkwall summers as they are, I’m not going somewhere where it doesn’t even get chilly in winter!”

Fenris’s small chuckle rippled through him, a hand patting his head like a child. Hawke found he really didn’t care.

“The Anderfels are a barren wasteland,” Anders said. “And I can’t go back there.”

“You can’t go _anywhere_ , Blondie,” Varric said brusquely. “You blew up the blighted Chantry, you moron.”

“It was _him_?” Charade exclaimed, pointing at him unnecessarily. “And you let him _live_?”

“I’m no healer,” Hawke snapped. “And as much as I wanted to, he…” He sighed and finally left Fenris’s shoulder, turning slightly to address everyone better. “I’m an idiot, all right?”

Fenris was scowling something awful, but Hawke ignored him. He could sense everyone agreed with his current opinion of himself, but at the moment he couldn't care less. Without Anders, they'd never have gotten through the fight with Meredith, and Hawke was used to shouldering the unpopular choices. Saving Anders, plunging the world into a Mage-Templar war... he had broad shoulders, he could bear the burden. Anders swallowed, looking down.

“I… I’m sorry, Hawke,” he murmured. Hawke snorted.

“I’ve not forgiven you. Don’t you dare even _dream_ of me ever forgiving you for this!” he snarled. “You really will never, ever know how hard it was for me to not kill you with my bare fucking hands.” Fenris seemed slightly pleased by that, but the tension had returned to the air. Hawke stood with a grunt and stretched as best we could.

“We need to get the fuck out of here. Find a boat out of Starkhaven, the first we can get, and see where that leads us. Those that want to stay in the Free Marches should split now. If you come with me, it’ll be much, much worse for you.”

“Where you go, I go,” Fenris murmured with a nod that to all who didn't know him would have seemed curt. “My home is where you are.” Hawke felt warmth surge in his chest, and he blinked his eyes rapidly. He'd managed to not cry, either through exhaustion or willpower, and he wasn't going to start now. Not in front of everyone, anyway.

Everyone did a great show of sharing looks. Varric was the first to stand, offering a smirk.

“If I don’t come with you, who else will document the further adventures of Garrett Hawke?”

Hawke laughed, something real and deep from a place he hadn’t been sure Meredith hadn’t eradicated with her madness. Varric clapped the middle of his back warmly.

Charade exchanged a look with her father, and sighed. “Look, I think we’ll stay here. We only left because, well, we’re related, and that’s sure to get us into deep, deep trouble. We can take new names, make new lives.” She moved forward and hugged Hawke, smiling. “Thank you for everything.”

Hawke patted her shoulder. “Least I could do, run errands for family members. I'm just glad you made it out of there safe.” He shook Gamlen’s hand, and everything was still awkward, and it probably wouldn’t ever _stop_ being awkward, but that didn’t matter. They wouldn’t ever see each other again, would they?

That left Aveline, Donnic and Merrill, because Anders didn't really count, and no one currently cared what happened to him. Aveline and Donnic conversed quietly, while Merrill hovered, nervous. It wouldn't do any good to leave her alone.

“I think,” Aveline said eventually, “we'll go to Rivain. Or try to, at least. See what we can do from there.”

Hawke nodded. He looked at Merrill.

“And we'll take her, don't worry,” Aveline added, placing a hand on the Dalish's tiny shoulder. Hawke gave her a grateful look, before embracing her, Donnic and Merrill, and then they were gone.

With a sigh, he turned back to the smoke rising from Kirkwall, billowing black into the sky as a foreboding harbinger of doom to come. The Chantry fumed its blame, the streets ran with magic and blood, flames and ice and lightning. It had been his home for ten years. Ten years of struggles and adventures and politics he'd wanted no part of, dragons and Qunari and Varterrals, ten years of being the hero and now being the outcast. He settled his pack better on his shoulder, turned away and set off southwards, Fenris and Varric by his side and Anders trailing behind. It was a familiar formation.

But the air smelt of change.


End file.
